Little Comets

It's quite rare that my 5 feet and 10 inches of a bepaunched 40-something is the tallest audience member at a gig, but that may have been the case last night. I also probably had the deepest voice in the room and certainly won best beard. But I was much of an irrelevance; mainly an obstacle between mid-teen girls and the objects of their affection. And very worthy of adoration too are Little Comets. A keyboard was set up for lead singer Rob for the midpoint of their set, the pleading hymnal "The Blur The Line and the Thickest of Onions". The song has strong things to say about the objectification of women. Despite being delivered to a similar audience, it is some way away from The Fab Four tra-la-ing “I wanna hold your hand”. In a way though it makes me, as a father of two teenage girls, quite optimistic about the future. These lads from Newcastle are proper lads-next-door and proper rockers and proper feminists. There is no compromise in any regard. And their audience acknowledge and appreciate that. Two of those were my 15 year old daughter and her school friend. Neither are experienced gig-goers (as hardly needs saying) and positioned themselves right at the front, right by the speakers. I dutifully stood there with them aware that I was blocking the view for half a dozen schoolgirls behind. But the times have a-changed. As I watched, half a dozen iPhones and Samsung’s materialised in the air around my head, held aloft in a ritual that the newly re-emerged Simple Minds might vaguely recognise. Videoing a gig may be a crime to the likes of Peter Frampton, Pink Floyd and Kate Bush. But just say those names again and you realise they have in common the self-absorbed noodling of the prog-rock seventies. These are all artists who demand to be taken seriously and have their work acknowledged in solemnity by appreciative middle aged people like themselves. I don’t know what John Lydon’s opinion is about filming a gig on your phone, but I suspect the DIY ethic of punk - that which gave rise to a plethora of fanzines and bootlegs – should be in favour of getting the word out and building a following. So well done then to the first act of the night. Daisy Victoria is not a uniquely gifted musician as I’m sure she’d admit. Any success she does have in the future you can be sure she will have earned. After her set she proceeded to give out business cards with QR code to slightly awestruck teens; something I cannot ever imagine Kate Bush doing now. But if there is a certain quirky and plaintive English rose quality about Daisy Victoria in her scintillating velvet jacket that is reminiscent of the great high priests of height wuthering, then in the delivery – and in particular the skin busting drumming of Jesse Barrett – she recalls Siouxsie Sioux and makes for a very operatic banshee. Following her was what I can only describe as a batting and bowling demonstration. Imagine a young Andrew Flintoff cloned himself twice. You could quite easily imagine that one would bowl and the other would bat. Gallery Circus are two dead ringers for the Fred. And one swings a guitar like it was a Wormwood Mega Bite and the Other overarms down on his snare drum from a full height standing position, just to get more oomph. The two-piece has been a realistic possibility in rock since the White Stripes showed everyone how it was done. Trouble is that everyone who does it sounds a bit like them. Royal Blood are the latest double act to stand out. With the Brighton dynamic duo it’s frankly hard to avoid the suspicion that either the overdubbing and track doubling technology has reached a nadir, or else there are several more musicians hiding in the wings. Not so Gallery Circus. They may have come down on the same bus as Little Comets but I can only imagine it had one of those segregated cage sections, like they have to transfer prisoners between state penitentiaries. Daniel and Graeme Ross come out of their corner swinging and don’t stop until they and you are completely exhausted. Its thrilling stuff. Both performers fizz with energy that makes an old dude like me extremely jealous that they have that much to waste. Graeme taps constantly with his sticks at anything within range, mike stands and rims and every part of a cymbal, Daniel whirls and reels a vintage Gibson 355 and bites hungrily at the mic. And they bring classic comic north east showmanship to boot, with stops starts and pyrotechnics. Highly entertaining. The main act was far more considered and studious pair of Geordie siblings in Robert “Rob” and Michael “Mickey” Coles. With band mate bassist Matthew Hall, it was obviously them - despite the charms of both support acts -that the diminutive audience had come to worship. Little Comets make a play of spontaneity: Rob being under the weather, pro session drummer (and I know I sound like “Jazz Club” on the Fast Show when I say this) Dave “Greenie” Green having trouble with his laptop, them not doing encores, and one song being so new they weren’t sure they’d got it down pat. But they protest too much. I have it on good authority that their set list is well rehearsed and so are they. These guys are very tight, very smart and very together; as you would expect from a crew able to orchestrate impromptu brilliant flash mob gigs in supermarket bakeries and tube trains, these guys don’t do anything without thinking about it. And that attention to detail is evident in the music. Melodically, lyrically and rhythmically they are at their most original when they opt for the chromatic. This is most obvious in Tense/Empty and A Little Opus. There is a clear influence of Paul Simon, both in the high playing position of Robs Black Telecaster and the hi-life/ Ray Phiri tinkling of Mickey’s white Jazzmaster that the pair imbibed Graceland at an early age. Notably all three guitars have their makers mark obscured by tape. The Coles brothers have lyrics in their (possibly copyrighted) child’s-handwriting font inscribed on theirs. I can shed no light on why this is but I suspect there is a good and distinctive reason. In everything, these boys are drawing clear lines and pointedly not crossing them. And the audience sang virtually every word of every song. There was no silencing the band to pander to a sing-along. Little Comets know the devotion of their fans is in part due to the fact that they are a mutual appreciation society. The young women with upturned faces put their trust in these earnest and sincere young gentlemen from Jarrow and they take that the most seriously of all.

One of the best bands in the B R I T I say British Isles! The Little Comets feel like one of those bands you just stumble across, so unassuming not a huge name in the music industry but they just produce such great songs. A four piece hailing from the North east their music is a mixture of percussive rhythms with a slight Afro beat twang their guitars. Although a lot of their songs feel really energetic and totally Pogotastic, the interesting thing is they do have this dark thoughtful side which is contrasting to the easy listening, stick in your head; put a smile on your face anthems. Having seen them live about four times they have never failed to disappoint. Musically they are on point and always pull together a well thought out set that brings the crowd to life with them. The lead singer and lead guitarist Michael Coles has this great talent for lyrics and likes to post the lyrics with additional meaning behind them on the Little Comets blog which I think is a nice touch as you don’t always get that unique thought process of a writer. He plays his guitar unusually high and sings out the side of his mouth which always intrigues me but is just his style. The Little Comets really are one of those bands that everyone just warms to when listening to or seeing them for the first time. Energetic, down to earth and talented they just rock!